A Day in the Life...of a Brookes Rugby Player

1000hrs – I wake up and take a look at those rugged, chiselled features in the mirror. Man, I clean up nice. I slip in to my spacious Brookes tracksuit and liberally daub aftershave in all the key areas, I’m the king of the jungle baby! A brief breakfast of porridge and young children and I’m ready to hit the road. Yeah, it’s lecture time mother fuckers, GET HYPED!

1400hrs – Lectures are such a drag, learning how to spell is for pussies. Some people might be able write and know about business models and stuff, but who cares? Can those mugs see off three pints in under a minute or break the collarbone of a Leeds Met undergrad? I don’t think so. I’ll say just one thing, I know which attributes the ladies prefer – it’s the latter ones.

1500hrs – Sacked off lectures for a match. Such a pro. Amazing bants on the bus to the game, Johnno got his cock out and, like, waved it at these pensioners in a Toyota Yaris. Oh yeah, then Clarkey shat in a bottle and threw it at some pikeys. Trust me, it was hilarious.

1530hrs – Kick-off time, LET’S GET LOCKED IN. I don’t like to brag, but I’m well above average in terms of ability and started in the centre. Trust me, the women just can’t get enough. We lost 60-0 but the game was closer than the score line might suggest, had Rollo brought his kicking boots we might have scored at least six points. We could have had them, seriously, they were poor. You’re probably thinking that I’m making excuses, but when we bring our “A” game we could probably beat most teams in world rugby.

1700hrs – Bus back was such japes. We stopped off at the services and made this insufferable fresher wear a mankini whilst drinking three litres of his own piss and masturbating over the centrefold of the Gay Times. You should have seen the people watching us, they thought we were hilarious and, to be fair, we are. Remember, it’s not gay, not even mildly homoerotic, if there are more than two of you.

2000hrs – Pre-lash at the Hob! Standard. Literally everyone loves us in there, us rugby lot basically make that place what it is. If it wasn’t our pub of choice for pre-Fuzzy’s bants then they would have been hit by the recession (what recession? LOLZ, LOLZ!) just like everyone else. We are Oxford’s kingmakers. We play rugby, you know.

2200hrs – The music at Fuzzy’s is great but they don’t play enough Kelly Clarkson. I’m SUCH a fan of hers, what a great girl, I like the cut of her gib.

2230hrs – The DJ (what a lad) puts the Baywatch theme on the record player, defo the highlight of my week. STANDARD. I don’t like to go on about it, but I’ve got a bloody marvellous torso, and what better place to show it off than in front of hundreds of adoring fans. “Fans”. As soon as the song’s over though it’s back on with the suit and tie, I love my unwarranted sense of privilege. I play rugby, you know.

0000hrs – I’ve got a girl interested and OH MY WORD is she a stunner. Loads of makeup and an excess of exposed flesh, just how I like ‘em. It’s a cattle market and I’m the fucking farmer. I bought her a couple of tequilas, it’s like Rohypnol only legal. I’m all about loopholes, me. She seems to enjoy dancing to Akon and the like, personally I can’t stand black artists, maybe it’s my public school education, maybe it’s just my inherent racism. Who knows? Whatever the tune, I’m always up for the cup (the cup, of course, being at least an hours worth of grinding followed by, at the very least, a blowjob). RUGBY.

0230hrs – Mission accomplished. I may be a brainless moron, but by Jove am I good at talking girls into sucking my cock. It’s been a pleasure. Literally.

By Adam Nonymous